


Siren Song

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, References to Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 01:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21007736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: The door rattles and there’s Cas, staring at him, eyes narrow and puzzled. Dean feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except he hasn’t had a cookie in years.“Dean. I wasn’t expecting you.”Mouth dry, Dean says, “Uh, it’s Thursday.”. + . + . + .In which Dean lets himself into Cas's cabin to wait for him, finds something unexpected, then Cas finds Dean.





	Siren Song

Dean doesn’t bother knocking. It’s Thursday night, Cas is always waiting for him on Thursday nights.

_And sometimes other nights._ The thought comes, unbidden. Unwanted. He pushes it aside.

“Cas?” he says, but he’s not expecting an answer. The cabin is clearly empty.

At war within himself--_go? stay? go?_\--he closes the door to keep the mosquitoes out and ends up on the inside. He decides that decides it for him--he’ll stay and wait. Not that he _has_ to. He doesn’t _need_ these nights with Cas.

_Right_, says the voice in his head. Dean ignores it.

Wandering aimlessly around the single-room space, Dean lets his eyes slide across the wooden walls, the plain, worn furniture. Cas lost the last of his grace over a year ago, but he still decorates his place like an angel. Stark, sterile. Dean is here often, but he’s never really got eyes for the decor. Maybe he should find Cas something colorful to brighten the place up. Blue, maybe. He could probably scrounge up some curtains…

The small kitchen table is cluttered with papers, some stacked neatly, others wrinkled and battered and tossed about. Dean sits in one of the two chairs. There’s a lantern on the table too; Dean is careful to keep it away from the papers when he lights it, mindful of possible sparks.

His breath catches in his throat. He’d seen Cas drawing, but he’d never seen any of his work before now. It’s...well, it’s _breathtaking._

All the people who matter, he sees them staring back at him. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Chuck. He picks up a drawing of Sam laughing, not with Lucifer’s cruel eyes but his own true happy light shining from every line.

There are others. Angels. Those have a certain quality to them--not sharp, not blurry, but _different_. Like Cas was trying to capture their angelic bodies while drawing their human vessels. They’re all done in charcoal and ordinary pencil, but somehow they shine with hints of grace.

And everywhere, _everywhere_, is Dean. For every drawing of another there are five of Dean, maybe more. His hands begin to shake. Cas has been under him, over him, inside him, but these drawings make him feel more _known_ than he’s ever been. He stands quickly, the chair clattering to the floor. He’s pacing in front of the table, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, thoughts racing.

He’d always thought...no. It’s time for honesty, right? Because these drawings are nothing if not honest. He tries again.

Back before the world went mad, he and Cas had a connection. From the very beginning there’d been...something. Cas always called it “a more profound bond.” Nothing ever happened, aside from lots of lingering glances and quite a few late-night fantasies--on Dean’s part, at least. But once Cas had begun the trek toward humanity, once Dean had lost his brother, once nearly every moment had become devoted to survival...it hadn’t taken long for them to take solace in one another.

For him it had always been more than solace. He acts like it’s just physical, but he craves the times Cas lets him stay all night, lets him be _close_. He never lets himself ask, he’s so afraid he’ll frighten Cas away and he’ll be left with nothing.

But these drawings. Dean stops pacing and picks up a drawing of himself, sprawled on his stomach on Cas’s bed, naked and asleep. There are constellations of freckles across his back, and three jagged knife scars that hadn’t been stitched well, and a puckered gunshot scar on his right shoulder. The detail is sharp, but Dean looks so soft, almost at peace. And Dean knows if he had been sleeping anywhere but in Cas’s bed he would have had tension in every line of his body instead.

And another--Dean in the barn, gripping Ruby’s knife in his fist. Defiance in his eyes. He looks fearless. Funny, part of him had been paralyzed with fear. He must have kept it well hidden.

The door rattles and there’s Cas, staring at him, eyes narrow and puzzled. Dean feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except he hasn’t had a cookie in years.

“Dean. I wasn’t expecting you.”

Mouth dry, Dean says, “Uh, it’s Thursday.”

Cas tilts his head, and looks more like the angel he was than he has in months. “It’s Wednesday, Dean.”

“No, it’s n--” Dean starts to say, but then he stops and thinks about it. Could it actually be Wednesday? The names of days matter less and less, running one into another.

“I’m sorry,” he says, confused and embarrassed. “I’ll go.”

He’s past Cas and in the doorway when Cas says, “Wait,”

Dean stops, helpless. Cas is a siren, Dean a parched and starving sailor. He turns but doesn’t look at Cas; he won’t do that unless Cas asks. Because now he knows Cas can see into him, and if Cas looks into his eyes right now he’ll know that all this is more than just sex to Dean. More than just scratching an itch. And if Cas sends him away for good Dean will truly go mad in this world of madness.

“Stay,” Cas says, and Dean realizes Cas isn’t looking at him either. Dean glances up to see that he’s at the table, fingers trailing over the scattered drawings, his back to Dean.

“I never meant for you to see these,” Cas says, his voice low and soft. Almost raw. His shoulders slump under worn flannel and Dean can’t help but remember the powerful wings that once sprouted from those shoulder blades.

“I didn’t mean to look.” It’s mostly true.

Silence ticks between them, then Cas starts to gather up the drawings, says, “Just give me a minute to put these away.”

“Don’t.” The word is out of Dean’s mouth before he can think, and he immediately wants to take it back.

Cas freezes.

“I mean…” Dean looks for the words. Finally he just says, “Show me?”

Cas turns and looks at Dean, and even though he’s fully clothed Dean has never felt so naked. So seen.

Their eyes are locked, and Dean couldn’t look away now even if he wanted to. Heart trying to beat its way out of his chest he says, “I’ll stay even if you don’t want to show me your work, Cas. I’ll stay every night if you’ll let me. Hell Cas, I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just so long as it’s yours.” Cas’s eyes widen at this; just a fraction, but Dean’s looking close enough to see. He takes a step closer, reaches out but doesn’t touch. “But I want more than midnight rendezvous. Who knows how much time we even have left anymore--I want to kiss you in the sunlight.”

Cas doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, and Dean’s heart sinks. All he can hear is his own uneven breath and his pounding heart, and the longer Cas stands staring at him the more Dean is sure Cas is going to send him away.

He can’t take that. He’ll make it easier.

“I’ll go,” he mumbles, turning away before Cas can see the hurt in his eyes.

And then Dean is spun around and slammed against the wall. One of Cas’s hands is gripping the front of his shirt and the other rather posessively pressed against his shoulder, right where his handprint once shone. Cas’s face is mere inches from his own.

“I’ve loved you since I raised you from perdition, Dean Winchester. I’ve belonged to you ever since--even when I told you I didn’t. Please.” He takes a breath, then another, then presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips, never breaking eye contact. “Please stay.”

“And after?” Dean says carefully.

“Stay after,” says Cas. He loosens his grip on Dean’s shirt, runs his hand over his chest instead. Dean’s breath is ragged. Cas looks up at him, eyes warm but true. “Stay always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look! This is my 150th posted fic on ao3!! ☺️


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